


if we can't find where we belong

by polyside



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Established Relationship, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyside/pseuds/polyside
Summary: "I’m still working on it. I’m supposed to call you Spark, though. Not Brian. C’mon, let’s get inside."
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28
Collections: Polygon Remix Challenge April 2020





	if we can't find where we belong

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [every city was a gift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18219071) by [poppyseedheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppyseedheart/pseuds/poppyseedheart). 

> I nearly always tag my fics as 'not beta read' but this is like, not even alpha read, this is seriously just me putting two of my favorite things in a bucket and then mixing them and then pouring them back out in an almost shapeless mess that I hope at least shows itself as a labor of love to you, my friends.
> 
> If you haven’t read at least the first chapter of each of these fics, you’re going to be confused. I recommend you read all of both because they’re both incredible.

He’s in the desert when he comes to. His body was walking, Brian feels the momentum in his legs and it makes him stumble, trip, fall into the sand face-first. It takes Brian until he’s finished picking himself up and brushing off the sand to realize he’s not alone, to recognize the silent, sun-tanned, rugged, scarred man at his side as unmistakably Pat. Brian sighs happily but finds his mouth covered before he can even speak.

“Brian?” Pat’s voice is rough like he’s been screaming for years but there’s a question in it that Brian knows well by now. He nods, and Pat relaxes. “Good, yeah, okay. I just.” A pause lingers in the air. “I’m still working on it. I’m supposed to call you Spark, though. Not Brian. C’mon, let’s get inside.” They’re about a block-length from a dilapidated building whose signage marks it a donut shop, and even when he twists around there’s nothing else to be seen on the horizon, just more desert, more sun and sand and heat so Brian hurries after Pat. They can solve this once they’re inside.

Inside is mostly untouched and Brian thinks - knows - this is California, though not a California he’s ever visited. When he hops up on one of the counter stools an unfamiliar ache begins to settle in his legs, and cataloging the rest of his body finds a burn of all things across his chest. Pat’s rummaging around the shop and Brian feels - anxious, worried, scared, nervous, all words for the same emotion of the tension in his gut he hasn’t felt in ages and ages but he has felt before, since this whole thing started. “We’re in danger,” is what he says aloud, eventually, for Pat to hear. Pat chuckles but there’s a darkness in it.

“Yeah, Bri, we’re in danger.” He holds up an empty bottle in one hand and a gun in the other - a real gun, for all that it’s painted blue with stickers. The rest of Pat’s backpack is, even more mysteriously, recording equipment, mics and headphones and a small mixer and Brian was anxious before but the panic is rising. “Pat, what the actual fuck is this?” Pat doesn’t respond. Brian follows as he moves to the next room and opens a spray-painted cupboard full of water and suddenly he’s thirstier than he’s even been in his life. Pat pulls out a bottle but gives Brian a long look.

“Water is rationed here, Bri. It’s hard to come by. Drink only what you need, okay?” Pat always knows things faster than he does. He nods, accepts the bottle, and drinks as Pat stuffs the contents of the cupboard into his bag. They reconvene back out in the main section of the shop where Pat fills Brian in.

“I’m a music producer. Well, obviously. But this world…this isn’t even close to ours, Bri. I don’t think you even know my name, because when you called me Pat it felt like a shock to my system. I don’t think anyone’s called me Pat in a long time.” He pauses and studies Brian. “I’m tan and scarred but you’re…still you, mostly. I don’t think we know each other very well. I saw you sing. You’re in a band.” Brian closes his eyes and remembers that too, the rush of a crowd and-

“Fuck, Laura and Jonah. I’m looking for them.” Their names feel wrong on his lips but he knows it’s Laura and Jonah, knows it doesn’t matter, not right now. “I think there was a fight. I think that’s how I got this burn and I think we escaped.”

“I think we need to keep moving,” is all Pat says in response, but Brian understands that, too, it resonates with the restlessness in his skin and the unsettling feeling that he shouldn’t stop too long in one place. “I think…I hope we figure out more as we go, though, Bri, because we’ve been in danger before but this is something else.”

That foreboding thought carries them back out into the desert, into a new journey-within-a-journey that has Brian so on edge that he forgets to want to go home, forgets every other manifestation of the yearning for normalcy and focuses only on walking, occasionally brushing hands with Pat just for grounding. After a while a dust storm kicks up and there’s nothing to do but keep moving, through the wind, the heat retreating but slowly as the sun begins to lower, until a building appears just through the sand and sound can be heard over the wind, faint, like lasers and screams. Pat pulls out his gun. 

“I don’t have one,” Brian murmurs. “I don’t have anything.” 

“I’ll keep you safe.” 

By the time they find the source of the noise it’s already over. Five bodies lie on the ground - three people all in white wearing rubber masks, one person dressed normally with the same mask, and a woman whose bruised throat and blue face mark the cause of death. A man and a woman stand arguing next to the car, a single gun abandoned on the hood. Brian’s heart sinks to realize they were too late to help, that maybe they could have saved someone if they hadn’t spent so long in the donut shop trying to puzzle out this strange world. He shakes his head of the thought, though - what help would he, with no weapon and barely any clue of the rules of this world, have been able to offer? What help is he offering now? Brian is a passenger in this insane dream pulling him ever farther from the home and job he loves and this moment should be nothing more than a reminder of how much here he doesn’t belong. 

Yet his heart goes out to the survivors. Pat’s does, too, clearly, because he’s already swinging his backpack around his shoulders, holstering his gun and moving towards them with gentle care, hands raised. In his wake, Brian follows.

“I’m Vinyl, this is Spark.” Brian doesn’t even wonder how Pat figured out his own name. Pat’s just good like that. “Do you need anything? We have water, some food…it’s just bars but it’s more than nothing.”

“We’ve got, we just left. Couldn’t take the pills anymore. Had to get the family out of there. Drove like hell, thought we’d stop here for a rest. We shouldn’t have stopped.” The man turns and shakes Pat’s outstretched hand. “Good to see a friendly face.”

“I’m only sorry we were too late. If there’s anything at all?” The man’s face turns completive and he eyes the gun at Pat’s hip, then the one on the hood.

“I don’t…if I’d been a better shot maybe they’d still be alive. Got any tips on how to use that thing?”

To Brian’s surprise, Pat does. He doesn’t have anything to offer in that regard, really, so he gives his help instead to the woman unpacking the car. Brian feels himself light up when he puts hands on a guitar case, something he recognizes, something he knows how to use. He pauses a bit too long caressing the leather and the woman smiles. 

“We probably shouldn’t have brought it but I couldn’t leave it behind. Back in the city we had a friend who used to play for the girls sometimes. Do you play?” Brian nods - he does, and so does the him of this world, and so have so many of the Brian’s he’s gotten to know. There aren’t a ton of constants but music is there more often than not and it feels comforting to find it here. She brings Brian inside with the guitar, then, and he meets two young girls, younger than teenagers, even. They look how Brian feels - tired. They perk up when they see Brian with the guitar, though, and that’s enough to motivate him to get his shit together for these kids. 

It’s easy to forget, for a little while. Sitting on the ground singing Disney songs to little girls may be more Laura’s jam than Brian’s but he’s done that lap once or twice himself back home; it’s easy enough. He sings songs they don’t know, his own music and random bands, things he wouldn’t expect any kid to know anyway, but he also hits songs they do. Disney, mostly. These girls love Disney songs and it’s so relaxed and easy that Brian practically jumps when Pat, in all the battle-scarred glory of this world, walks through the door with the golden light of sunset at his back. Now that the anxiety has drained Brian takes a moment to appreciate him, a little leaner and a little rougher than the Pat he knows but obviously, perfectly, still his Pat. And Pat seems better, too, less tense, more present, coming over immediately to ruffle Brian’s hair. He mock-scowls up from the floor and Pat crouches down.

“I said we’d stay for dinner and crash with them for the night. There’s something on the roof, so there’s probably a way up. Interested in playing lookout with me?” There’s no room in Brian’s heart for anything but love when Pat smiles like that at him, and he nods stupidly. “Great, lets get food.” They hold hands as they sit on a couch and eat, sandwiches and fruit and a cake that makes Pat smile and that is all Brian needs to see out in these worlds, is Pat smiling. This world wasn’t meant for that, nor was it meant for Pat standing off to the side as Brian sings the girls one last song for the night, or for helping Brian haul the guitar up the ladder to the roof so they can swap songs all night.

“I miss home,” Brian can’t stop himself from saying, the moment soft. “We could have died, like their friends.” 

“I told you I’d keep you safe, Bri.” He pulls out the gun, examines it. “This Pat, he calls himself Vinyl and calls you Spark but I bet he’d say the same. He’d throw himself off the roof to protect you. Just like I would.” He picks up the sleeping bags they found and zips them together to make one large sleeping bag, and shrugs sheepishly. “I love you. No matter where we go, I’ll keep you safe.”

Curled around Pat, laid out between cold concrete and unfeeling stars, that’s how Brian falls asleep, hoping for the best.


End file.
